Also by Sariah Wilson
The Ugly Stepsister Strikes Back
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.
Published by Kindle Press, Seattle, 2015
A Kindle Scout selection
Amazon, the Amazon logo, Kindle Scout, and Kindle Press are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
For Charity, because she loves Nico and Kat as much as I do, and because she’s the mom of my favorite real-life twins.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue
As always, I . . .
Acknowledgments
About the Author
“A little light reading?” His accent was faint, and I couldn’t quite place it. Italian-ish. But I didn’t care enough to ask. I felt him standing next to my stuffed armchair, hovering, and sighed. What was it with European men? American guys didn’t give me the time of day. But over here I was like some kind of dude catnip.
I didn’t take my eyes off of my book. “Sorry, not interested.”
He moved away from me, sitting in an armchair next to mine. Well, I suppose this was what I got for hanging out in the lodge’s lobby. I should have stayed in my room until my best friend, Lemon, was ready to leave.
“You’re not interested in Shakespeare?” he asked. I could hear the amusement in his voice.
“I’m not interested in you.”
“Why not?” This guy just could not take a hint. I turned to look at him, ready to tell him off, and nearly choked.
Gorgeous was an understatement. Tall, athletic, high cheekbones, black hair, and blue eyes. Like Superman’s hotter Italian cousin. He was dressed for a day of skiing—a black turtleneck with an unzipped royal-blue winter coat. And he topped it off with a smile, a blinding, unbelievable smile that nearly did me in.
He leaned in conspiratorially, and I got a whiff of his cologne. He smelled as good as he looked. His glacier-blue eyes were full of intensity and fun, and I wanted to sit and stare into them all day. “I’ve been told I’m very charming.”
I didn’t doubt it. I would never have admitted it out loud, but I was very charmed. Like I was the snake and he was playing a hypnotizing tune that only I could hear.
And I didn’t like the way that made me feel.
Plus, I had to consider reality in this situation. No way could this guy really be hitting on me. He probably dated supermodels and I . . . didn’t date at all. Like, ever. He was so out of my league.
I’d never been so tongue-tied before. I was typically handy with the quips and comebacks. But I couldn’t respond. I had to look away from him and back at my book. The words on the page swam around in front of me, and I was unable to focus on a single one. I needed him to leave so I could regain my equilibrium. “Nothing personal. Italian men don’t do it for me.”
I was the lyingest liar who ever lied.
“How fortunate for me then that I am Monterran.” He had a deep, rumbly, smooth voice that felt like honey and laughter mixed together. I wasn’t immune, and he hadn’t been kidding. He really was disgustingly charming.
My mouth twitched, wanting to smile. I turned a page, pretending to be entranced. I was on Christmas break, I reminded myself. I was here in Monterra to ski with Lemon. It was the last time we would be together before getting our master’s degrees in a few months. I had priorities and plans, and SuperHottie was not on the list.
And if I were being truly honest—he kind of scared me. A guy like that would have expectations, and I wasn’t like other girls.
“I’m Nico, by the way.”
“That’s nice for you.”
But he again failed to parse out the subtext here (and I wasn’t being very subtextual). Short of blatantly telling him to get lost, what else could I do? Would I have to be rude? Because instead of realizing that I was a lost cause, he laughed. He laughed and it did funny things to my insides. I wanted to laugh with him. And crawl into his lap and beg him to be mine.
“And you are?” he prompted.
“Still not interested.” It was becoming a bigger lie as time passed. If some other guy had pursued me this way, I would have thought it was creepy and called for security to have him escorted off the mountain. Instead, I secretly hoped he would keep talking to me.
I thought he’d finally gotten the message as an entire minute of silence passed between us before he reached over to look at my book’s spine to see the title. I gulped in response—his hands were large and masculine, and I wondered how his long fingers would feel interlaced with mine.
I shook my head and let out a shaky breath. I had gone seriously crazy. Like jumping-on-Oprah’s-couch crazy.
“Macbeth? I would have guessed Romeo and Juliet.”
I couldn’t help myself. I had to look at him. “Two fifteen-year-olds who kill themselves in the name of love after only knowing each other for three days? No thanks.”
That smile. He was killing me. “You don’t find it romantic?”
“I don’t find anything romantic about suicide.”
“You don’t think love at first sight is romantic?” he persisted.
I’d never believed such a thing possible before this moment, but now I was sort of getting where Romeo had been coming from. Nico was literally the most handsome man I’d ever met in real life. If anyone could convince me to believe in love at first sight, he was the guy.
“Nope,” I finally managed. He smiled like he didn’t believe me.
“Nico! Andiamo!”
Nico looked over his shoulder at a group of guys who were waving and calling out to him. He shouted something back to them, and they headed out the door, hooting and hollering as they went.
He stood up. He was taller than I’d first thought. Yummy tall. Way taller than me tall, and that wasn’t easy to find. “How long will you be in Monterra?”
It was such a personal question my gut reaction was to tell him to mind his own business, but to my surprise, I found myself saying, “For the next couple of weeks.”
“May I see your phone?”
I didn’t actually own a cell phone. I could barely afford food.
“No phone, and I’m not phone adjacent.”
Nico smiled again, and I wanted to melt into my chair. He reached inside his coat, pulled out a small white business card, and handed it to me. “If you do ever find yourself adjacent to a phone while you’re here, please call. I would love to take you to dinner before you leave.”
When I reached out he took my hand and turned it over, leaning down to kiss my knuckles. A lightning arc exploded inside my hand and zoomed around my entire body, all the way down to my toenails. I might have gasped, but I decided to pretend that I would never do somethi
ng so lame.
He straightened back up to put the card in my shaking hand, closing my fingers around it. “I look forward to your call,” he said as he walked backward toward the exit. “Ciao, bella.”
He left and it took my eyes a second to adjust. Like I’d been staring at the sun and now had third-degree burns on my retinas. Who did that? Who just kissed people’s hands like that? This wasn’t the fifteenth century. So weird. And exciting. But weird.
The business card was white and thick. Obviously expensive. There was only a series of numbers, presumably his telephone number. I flipped the card over. Blank. Who had a card without a name on it? Just their phone number?
I’d tell you who. A guy who kissed your hand.
I closed my book and put it on the coffee table in front of me. I looked at the card again, turning it over a couple of times as I considered my decision.
I didn’t need this while I was here. And I couldn’t let Lemon see it or she’d hogtie me and force me to call him. I was here to relax, forget about my school troubles, and enjoy time with my best friend. Boys were not part of the equation.
A massive fire burned in the fireplace across the room. Decision made, I walked over and before I could change my mind, threw the card into the fire.
And informed myself that I absolutely, totally and completely did not regret it.
Lemon’s “five more minutes” turned out to be “more than an hour.” She came down, all smiles and sorries, in her bright pink snowsuit. “Come on, Kat, darlin’! Let’s go!” she said in her sweet Southern twang.
I smiled back. She’d been my best friend since our freshman year when we were assigned to be roommates in our dorm. The computer couldn’t have matched up a more polar opposite pair than us. Lemon Beauchamp was from a premiere (read: way wealthy) family in Atlanta, Georgia. She was like a tiny, modern-day Marilyn Monroe—platinum blonde, bright red lips, curves for miles.
I was from a not-so-great family in a trailer park in Colorado (read: way poor) and was tall, usually wore no makeup, and had dark brown hair. Lemon kept encouraging me to call it auburn, but it was definitely brown (with maybe a little hint of red when I went out into the sun).
She kept up a giddy, totally one-sided conversation as we gathered up our skis (hers: top-of-the-line; mine: rented), helmets, and poles. We stepped outside and the light nearly blinded me. I put my sunglasses on and shaded my eyes with my hand to look straight up at the Alps. I thought the Rocky Mountains back home were huge, but these were massive. Impressive. Majestic.
“I am so excited!” Lemon kept saying throughout her monologue. I didn’t know if anyone else on the planet loved to ski as much as she did. Lemon had come to Brighton University, our small liberal arts college, solely because of the skiing. She spent every winter weekend on the mountain. In fact, after freshman year Lemon continued living with me in a small apartment off campus instead of the condo her parents thought she rented. She used the extra money to fund her skiing habit.
I, on the other hand, had only gone skiing once about twelve years ago for a class trip in sixth grade. I remembered our group lesson, and it turned out I had exceptional balancing skills, as I was the only one to not fall forty times in the first ten minutes.
So when Lemon begged me to spend Christmas with her, offering to foot the entire bill for us to ski in some foreign country I’d never even heard of, I had to say yes. I hated that she had to pay for it, and when I offered to reimburse her, she got offended and said it was her Christmas gift to me. Her parents were off celebrating their thirtieth wedding anniversary on a cruise in the Caribbean, and Lemon did not want to be alone. How could I say no?
I really had tried to refuse at first, but then Lemon went and got her mother involved. Sue Ellen Beauchamp wasn’t the discussion type. She was the sending-down-tablets-of-stone type. Which quickly settled everything. Lemon and I were going to Monterra, and neither Beauchamp woman would hear another word about it.
Since it had been a while since I’d last skied, Lemon suggested another class. I wasn’t interested. It was just like riding a bike, right? I would remember. Besides, I had planned on spending most of my time reading and hanging out at the spa. But I’d promised Lemon I would spend at least one day skiing with her, and today was the day.
I saw Nico and his friends standing in line at a ski lift for an intermediate run. He didn’t notice me, and a small part of me was glad for the chance to watch him one last time as he joked around with his five friends. My heart did a funny little flip as he moved into position to take the lift. I felt a tinge of sadness that I would never see him again.
We got to our ski lift and the operators stopped me. Turned out I had forgotten to attach my lift ticket to my zipper.
Lemon looked thoroughly disappointed, watching the lift climb up the mountain. “You go on ahead, I’ll catch up.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. I’ll just find you up at the top.” Most ski resorts had their bunny slopes next to the lodge at the bottom of the mountain. Lemon had explained that some, like this one, had the easier slopes up higher.
I trudged back to our room in my puffy red rented ski outfit, located my ticket, and got back to the lift as quickly as I could. Which wasn’t very fast, as my coat and pants made me waddle like a stuffed, drunk duck. When I got back outside I snapped my helmet on and struggled with getting my shoes into the ski bindings, but I finally managed it.
Standing in front of the lift, I said a quick prayer that it wouldn’t knock me over. It stole my breath away as it came up behind me, scooping me up and forcing me to sit down. But I enjoyed the slow trip up the mountain. The sun was high and bright, the air clean and crisp. So much beautiful white snow, sparkling all over like a field of scattered diamonds. I inhaled the cold air deeply and grinned. I had always loved winter, the way ugly things became beautiful when they were covered in white.
Thankfully, I didn’t fall when I jumped off the lift. I used my poles to propel myself forward, walking at the top of the run to see if I could spot Lemon. The slope was covered with people enjoying the day—mostly families.
Farther down I saw Lemon’s bright pink outfit. I tried calling out to her and waving, but she was too far away to hear me. I pushed out onto the slope after her.
It was a gentle downgrade, and I watched the delighted children who giggled and yelled as they played, skiing circles around me. It made me smile. I was right. Super easy. I didn’t need a class. Up ahead, Lemon headed to her left and I tried to follow.
She disappeared from sight behind a line of trees, so I continued going left. I came down to a wide passageway between a group of trees. I figured she had gone this way. I skied on the path until I merged into the new area. After a few moments I noticed that there were no kids here and the ground felt funny. I also felt like I was going faster. I looked down and realized I was no longer on the smooth, machine-flattened snow on the bunny slope. This looked like ice. It was steeper. I must have accidentally skied onto a more difficult slope.
I went flying forward, scarily fast. I started breathing hard and my heartbeat raced as I realized the danger I was in. I went numb. I had to stop. How did I stop? My brain wouldn’t function. Think, think!
I turned my skis to the side, to cut into the snow. But that made me go faster. Not good. I straightened back out. What was I supposed to do again?
In a panic, I let go of my poles. I immediately realized my mistake. But it was too late as I kept going faster and faster.
If knew that if I hit a tree, I would be dead. I came around a bend to see a huge forest of trees on my left. I tried to lean away from them, praying that I could stay upright.
Maybe I could drag my hand like an anchor and slow myself down. I crouched down, which made my momentum pick up. I put my gloved hand behind me into the snow, but hit something hard. I let out a loud yell of pain and pulled my left hand up to my chest, cradling it. The tears sprang to my eyes. I had broken it.
What n
ow? The white-hot pain was interfering with my ability to think. My eyes watered more, making it hard to see. I had a moment where I thought, This is it. This is how I die.
“Fall down!” I heard a voice on the wind and turned my head slightly to look. It was Nico and his buddies, skiing fast until they were alongside me. It filled me with relief. They would help me. Save me. Until I processed what he had said.
“What?” I yelled back.
“You have to fall down!”
I shook my head. No way. Panic and fear threatened to overwhelm me. I had never been this scared.
“Fall backward, on your side!” he instructed me. “You have to. Now!”
What choice did I have? If I tried to stop on my own, I would fall. If I ran into something, I’d be dead. I needed this to be over. I needed to get to a hospital. I had to do what he said. Before I could talk myself out of it, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, falling back toward the mountain on my right side. I hit the ground hard. I had my breath knocked out of me as I began tumbling over and over through the snow. I felt something twist in my left ankle, but I couldn’t cry out as I rolled and rolled until I finally stopped and everything went black.
Shouts and voices crept into my consciousness, and I became aware of the fact that I was dizzy and flat on my back, in the snow, looking up at the sun. Nico leaned over me, blocking the sun in a way that made him look like he had a halo. Maybe he was an angel and I was dead.
“Stay still, don’t move,” he told me. I noticed that his forehead was bleeding. I wanted to ask if I was alive, but I couldn’t catch my breath. And every single part of me throbbed in pain.
I didn’t know how much time had passed, but Nico kept talking to me, telling me I had to stay awake. I didn’t want to stay awake because the pain was excruciating. I tried pushing him away but could barely lift my arm. I saw my sunglasses in the snow, broken into tiny black shards.
Someone put a neck brace on me, and the men moved me to what felt like a long board. They buckled me in, and I was aware of being pulled down the mountain, surrounded by people in bright orange outfits.
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